


Lord knows I’ve tried

by Fatale (femme)



Series: This complicated thing we have [8]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:47:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal wonders when he became such a headcase that Peter and El decided they'd have to distill their thoughts into the blandest possible shades of meaning in order to, what? Not send him into a spiraling mess of fear and self-loathing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lord knows I’ve tried

Lord knows I’ve tried  
Neal/El (established Peter/El/Neal)  
WC: 650

A/N: Ya’ll really wanted to know more about the yurt, so here you go. These started out as unrelated fluffy drabbles and I meant to keep them that way. Then they kind of followed one another in progression of intimacy, but still stand-alone. Now, you have to read one to understand the other. I’m doing a great job.

You should probably read A yurt and a side-eye before this. [Number, ah, eight?](http://fatale.livejournal.com/tag/this%20complicated%20thing%20we%20have).

 

 

 

“God, this pie is great.” Neal doesn’t eat many sweets; he’s been more careful about his diet than ever since he turned 35. The weight doesn’t seem to stay off as easily anymore. Peter calls him vain, but he notices Peter sure seems to appreciate the results of his _vanity_ enough.

Neal finishes his pie, barely restraining himself from scraping his finger across the plate and licking the crumbs off. “My mom made pie when I was little, until--” He catches himself, tries to swallow the words as soon as they leave his mouth.

He hates talking about his mother, his childhood. Elizabeth goes still and he forces himself to plow forward, “Well, after my father, she didn’t. She kind of...fell apart. She was a mess.”

“Neal,” she says and he can tell she’s picking and discarding words just as quickly, choosing her next statement carefully. “I’m glad you decided to tell me about your mother. She -- It must have been...trying.”

Christ, what a boring understatement. Neal wonders when he became such a headcase that Peter and El decided they'd have to distill their thoughts into the blandest possible shades of meaning in order to, what? Not send him into a spiraling mess of fear and self-loathing? A traitorous part of his brain points out how his body's sagging with relief that El didn't press for more information about his mother.

Still, he’s not a _child_ or an _emotional cripple_. He’s an adult man who has perfectly valid concerns with over-sharing information about himself with interested parties. But Elizabeth is -- well, she’s Elizabeth, isn’t she? She makes him gelato and feeds him and packs him sometimes terrible lunches with nice post-it notes tucked inside. She’s owed more than vague, heavily-edited stories about his past and clumsy attempts at forging intimacy.

It’s a bit like pulling off a band-aid, he reasons, conveniently forgetting how much he loathes pain or even mild discomfort. “El, if you're curious, you can just ask,” he says, subdued.

She catches his gaze and holds it. “Can I?” she asks. It sounds like a challenge.

“Yeah,” he says and shrugs. “I’ll try to answer. I really will.”

He’s not offering her complete honesty, or even answers, but he’s promising her that he’ll try to push past the initial discomfort and continue for as long as he can.

She smiles, says in a deceptively breezy voice, “Peter told me you lived in a yurt.”

Neal takes a deep breath, leans close and says in a rush, “It was after I stole the Raphael and before Peter caught up with me in New York. I ended up in Mongolia. I may or may not have been looking into a gem mining operation in Myanmar -- don’t tell Peter -- and ended up drinking way too much alcohol. It was clear, came in a huge jug and had a whole snake in it, honest to god, a fucking cobra. I was later told I did an alluring and evocative fire dance--”

“Alluring?” El asks, sounding interested.

“May have been ‘alarming,’ I get confused. Anyway, apparently I told my life story in song and interpretive dance; I don’t know, it’s all fuzzy. I ended up on the floor of a yurt with a jug and possibly married. There was a woman with me at one time, but I think she was turned off by my singing and incessant weeping.”

“Neal,” Elizabeth says softly, scooting close to rest her head on his shoulder.

“It was, whatever, weeping in a manly fashion. No big deal. I wasn’t crying into a doily. I missed Kate. I was tired of running. I needed a break, something. I had to catch my breath.”

“And you thought you’d do it with interpretive dance?”

Neal feels himself smile and he buries his nose in El’s glossy brown hair, inhales the scent of her peach shampoo, her perfume, vanilla from her job. “It worked, you should try it sometime.”

“Maybe I will -- I'll show you mine, if you show me yours,” she says and threads her fingers through his.

 

 

 

 

The end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pictures provided of the stuff described in the fic [here](http://fatale.livejournal.com/248437.html), if you’re curious. Warning: They may steal your soul.

 


End file.
